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diff --git a/unused/babies.txt b/unused/babies.txt
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+I See You.
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+In your mind you know how things will go. You can see clearly because the world does not intrude; everything is possible and bright. What actually happens will always be different and you must find a way to live between this possible brightness and the world you made in your head. 
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+Her chest is heaving, sucking in on itself past the point that it seems possible to do so. They put a tiny oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, but she keeps sucking as if she can't draw a breathe.
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+Out of the corner of my eye across the room I can see my wife. There is bright red blood around her. 
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+The room feels impossibly bright and clear, so bright and clear it's hard to believe there is anything so ordinary as air allowed inside it. She is sucking at the bright, clear air so hard her ribcage is outlined, her stomach nearly collapsed. This will be the first of many things that create a divide between the world you made and the one where everything is possible. 
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+There are people in green scrubs everywhere, dozens of them. One of them takes her, takes me with her to another room, down a hallway of less clear air, less bright light, a dimmer world. And then other people arrive, tubes of clear plastic are unfurled. Heat lamps. Oxygen. Heartrates. Breathing rates. You feel helpless because you are. This takes a long time to sink in how really helpless you actually are. It's not until it nearly has that you realize it's probably best not to let it sink in all the way because there's a good chance you might not ever get that helplessness back out.
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+And then it gets much worse.
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+A man in a white coat tells you not to touch your daughter. This is not a wise thing to say. It's the sort of thing that produces rage. I am not the sort of person that deals well with rage; my gut instinct is to release it. 
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+But you have to ignore it for now, do what any sensible new father would do, just ignore this voice. It continues to drone on about things that are unimportant, which is to say everything but this little girl lying on her back with tubes criss-crossing her tiny body. Your hand is resting softly on her head, her hair is still wet, sticky against your palm. 
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+Everything is disconnected; information arrives -- I'm aware that I am staring at the teeth, that the teeth are allowing words out and that my daughter's heart rate in increasing every time I take my hand off her head -- but my brain is unable to process it. I just watch it drift by. It's not disconnected really, it's just all happening so slowly that you can take your time with each bit of it, turn it over in your hands and examine it before you do anything with it. If this were a movie the room would be in zero gravity, everything would float.
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+The voice is again saying something about not touching and suddenly I have a flashing fantasy of picking those teeth out my knuckle bones with a pair of tweezers. There would I think be something deeply satisfying about smashing this face until it is gone. You don't do these things because in the world where everything is possible this is not a good possibility, it is not bright and everything, it is dark and unnecessary, but the thoughts are still there, no use denying that. So I ignore the voice. I will learn to ignore so many voices. I turn back to my daughter and keep touching her. Her heartrate comes back down. You may be helpless, but you are not stupid.
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+Instead you close your eyes and breath. That's all you're ever really doing. Breathing. Just close your eyes and feel the breath passing through the tips of your nostrils. Breathe. It's what she is trying so hard to do. And like you each day she does it a little better until one day reality becomes so unreal it might never have happened and the world is more like the way you made it in your head, everything is possible and bright. 
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+And now that 
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+You notice these things even as you notice yourself responding to the man talking, the face talking near you. Nothing about him really registers save some white teeth that are occasionally parting to allow out sounds, the rest is a murky haze, muddy background familiar you'll hardly recognize him the next time you see him. 
+
+On July 11th my wife gave birth to our babies girls, twins we named Olivia and Lilah. To hospital where they were born they remain Baby A and Baby B. Olivia was born without any problems, her sister, who arrived a few moments later had some breathing troubles and was sent to NICU, the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Lilah's mother went with Olivia to a recover room, I went with Lilah to the ICU.
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+I held Lilah's tiny hand while the nurses inserted an IV, hooked oxygen and other equipment for monitoring vitals like heart rate, breathing rate and percent of blood oxygen, all little squiggly lines that said, in themost clinical of terms how my baby was doing. Meanwhile Lilah's chest heaved as she tried to draw breaths.
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+My first encounter with Dr. Atul Khurana was not a positive one, but then, neither were any of my subsequent meetings. The truth is the first time I met the doctor I thought he was some sort of customer satisfaction survey person of the the hostpital. He came up out of the blue and started asking me questions without so much as an introduction. Since then I've realized that, he naturally assumed that I would know who he is because he's the sort of man that assumes everyone knows who he is. He also probably thought he white lab coat helped. I'm from Los Angeles, props are just props to me. 
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+He's also I realized later, regrettably, the sort of man that assumes everyone will know that the only man in the room is, obviously, the doctor.
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+As he spoke I slowly wrapped my head around the the disconcerting fact that this man was not some annoying hospital beurocrat I could safely ignore, but the person in charge of looking after my newborn daughter. 
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+I won't lie to you I hold modern medicine in a very low regard. 
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+He also at several points simply made medical statistics, like "95 percent of doctors don't do frenulectamies, so I have to ask myself what it is that they know..." As it turns out, not only is that not true, the proceedure is endorsed and recommend by the American pediatric association (and was subsequently performed by one of three doctors at the hostpital who routinely perform the surgery and who simply chuckled and said, probably best to let it go when I asked about Dr Karana's blatant lie.
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+I'm grateful for the help he gave Lilah, but I'd sooner chew my arm off than have another conversation wtih him.
diff --git a/unused/emote.txt b/unused/emote.txt
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+We just want to emote until we're dead. -- Of Montreal
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+My last overly sentimental post on memory and whatnot seems to have had a strange irrational effect of a number of people who crawled out of the woodwork to email me, which is kind of nice and I enjoy it though you're showing your age by emailing me. The things is the kids today have their intimate dicussions (not to mention drunken sex videos right here on the page, that's what the comments are for.
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+Or at least that's what I'm given to believe. Or at least that's what New York magazine would have me believe. 
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+And I *do* believe. What other choice is there?
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+The article linked above made me realize among other things that my job at Wired is doomed. In five years the target demographic of Wired will know what's Wired, what's Tired and what's Expired long before we do. [note to editors, for that last issue the cover needs to read: "Wired: you, Tired: your privacy, Expired: Us]"
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+The New Yorker article is a nice wake up call for those of that niavely believe that you can somehow maintain privacy on the web. Case in point, using Google Analytics I can tell when almost everyone I know reads this page. The day after I send out an email announcement I typically see two hits from the ATL area (hi Jimmy, hi Nancy) one from some tiny town northeast of Athens (hmm. who could that be?) a handful from Los Angeles (Corrie, Bill, Faith, we'll get drinks soon), San Francisco (yes I am coming up there, eventually), London (ditto the last aside) and some strange person living in Philadelphia (?). Not only do I know that you read it, I know when you read it. But don't worry I'm benevolent.
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+You think your life is yours but it's not, you are logged, tracked, mapped, videoed, photographed, and in a couple rare circumstances with my readers in the midwest, anally probed by aliens, every waking and sleeping moment of your life. And what's more all that is going to end up on the net, tagged, sorted, filed, cross references, indexed and ranked. No it isn't going to, it already is. (just click the photos tab above)
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+Why does this notion freak us out? How did I come to suddenly be the guy over thirty who doesn't get it? I write this and publish it for anyone on God's green earth to read, so I should be fine with right? But the things is, much as I want to be fine with it, I'm not. If you thumb through the artchives you'll notice I tend to publish these late at night. Some attribute this to a love of late night adventures, but the truth is I do it so I can fall aasleep as fast as possible so I don;t have to experience the painfully embarrassing sensation that alwasy follows that moment when I press send.
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+I realized tonight that while I have for all intents and purpose embrassed some of this put-it-all-out there mentality of the kids, I don;t have the tough hides they've developed from doing it for years.
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+It's not that the kids today are fame whores with no sense of privacy, it's that they've grown up with the things we're still adjusting to as a fact of everyday life. They know there is no privacy left. 
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+Oh you can Ted Kazinsky it in the woods somewhere, but you'd have to go all the way to substistance farming to really drop off the grid. 
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+So your options are develop a heightened sense of paranoia worthy of some auxillary stock option in Renolds Foil Company or you can embrace. Join flickr, join YouTube, join del.icio.us, join Facebook, blog about your , post your drunken photos from that afternoon at the beach or those videos of yourself dressed as sexy pocahontas while your boyfriend chases you round the kitchen table with a tomahawk while a Gwar plays in the background. Don't worry we all do it. 
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+And make sure it's Gwar that'll confuse the hell out of the kids.
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+When it is more important to be seen than to be talented, it is hardly surprising that the less gifted among us are willing to fart our way into the spotlight,” sneers Lakshmi Chaudhry in the current issue of The Nation. “Without any meaningful standard by which to measure our worth, we turn to the public eye for affirmation.”
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+(who I've been reading for the last four years and who I genuinely think understands the emerging youth culture better than anyone else)
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+Sorry Kevin you'll always be that (really nice, friendly) guy at Vision Video to me.
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diff --git a/unused/power-windows.txt b/unused/power-windows.txt
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